


Of Heroes and Kings

by typervoxilations



Category: Original Work
Genre: Also lots of gross details other than blood and guts, Character(s) of Color, F/F, F/M, Fantasy, Fantasy Creatures, Fantasy Futuristic, Fantasy Universe, Futuristic, Gore, High Fantasy, Historical Fantasy, M/M, Moderately Slow Build, Original Female Character x Original Female Character, Original Female Character x Original Male Character, Original Fiction, Original Male Character x Original Male Character, Slash Main Pairing, Strong Female Characters, War, lots and lots of world building, world building
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2018-04-14 09:21:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4559241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/typervoxilations/pseuds/typervoxilations
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wakes to a name that doesn't feel like his own. They call him hero, champion, the Lord Luminary - but the things they tell him he's accomplished seem won by another's hand. </p><p>He wakes to a world falling apart and the familiar urge to fix it. They expect him to save them again but he's not even sure he knows what he did the first time around. Anithea's sky has been torn open, corrupted fiends roam the land he's supposed to call home, and his memory is the least reliable asset he has. Too bad it's his only asset. </p><p>He wakes to nothing he remembers and he knows he's not allowed to fail.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Heroes and Kings

**Author's Note:**

> I'm actually supposed to be working on Shards, but then I was smacked in the face with inspiration for this.... monstrosity.  
> OTL
> 
> This work is a tribute to the people whose lovely works inspire me to keep writing: CMTaylor, antagonists, blustersquall, Footloose, Calenlass_Greenleaf. <3

* * *

_' And the Father of Order said to the boy, "Adriel, son of Erasil, son of Eris;  
_ _I b_ _id you leave the fields of Aphion, for I call you to seek a greater purpose."_

 _And Adriel replied, "Almighty Ywesis, I am but a humble farmer's son. What_  
_greater purpose can I be called to than honoring my father and mother, to till_  
_the ground and toil so that they might rest their aches and pains?"_

 _Ywesis was pleased by this, but it was not the answer he sought and he bid the_  
_boy again. "Adriel, son of Erasil, son of Eris; your heart is true and your heart is_  
_good. My brother seeks to destroy all that is such, for he is the Father of Chaos_  
_and it is in his nature, but Chaos without Order is nothing but Void."_

 _And Adriel replied, "Almighty Ywesis, the land I work upon is not even my own._  
_I am but a humble farmer's son, and I dare not stray into the path of the gods."_

 _And Ywesis said, "Do not fear, for my name will be your shield and my blessing_  
_will be your sword. Wield them in faith and even the dark will hide in shame." '_  

\- excerpt from _The Book of Anithea, Verse II: The Legend of Adriel_

* * *

 

   The smell of rusting iron and rot hit him hard enough that he had to reel back and try not to retch, but he failed miserably and he groaned, shaky hands reaching up to wipe away the bile from his lips before he could even open his eyes. It was dark, too dark to see anything but vague shapes. The lack of light was disorienting, and he tried to push himself up from his horizontal position, but his hands slid on a wet patch by his head - it came away heavier still and mildly sticky. His stomach roiled in protest once more - and he spent the next several minutes trying to regain a semblance of a balance. 

   He successfully pulled and pushed and heaved until he was sitting upright, propped up against the wall, clothes soaked through and clinging to his skin, his head spinning and spinning and- 

   He resisted the urge to press his hands to his face, because they were covered in only the gods know what, and tried to draw on his memory to figure out what had happened to him.

   There was a blank.

   A huge gray void of static when he tried to think of something.  _Anything._

   Nothing came to mind.

   Not a name, not a place - 

   He realized with a jolt that he didn't know his own name. 

   Panic rose like nausea and he tried to take deep breaths and ended up gagging on the stench of death instead. He needed fresh air. He needed light. He needed to-

    _Calm down._

The voice rose unbidden in his mind, soothing and gentle and nothing like what he thought his inner voice should have been, and he struggled to reign in his hysteria. One thing at a time. He grasped for purchase and hauled himself to unsteady knees, blindly groping the length of the wall for a catch, a door. His fingers brushed against the sill of a window and a flower pot tethered on the edge, crashing to the floor while he fumbled erratically for the clasps to shutters he's still not quite sure how he knew where there, to throw them open and let the light in.

   He wished he hadn't.

   His hands were stained dark red - it couldn't have been anything else but blood - and he's too scared to look down. The damp stickiness plastered against his skin suddenly made his skin crawl. He didn't want to turn around, every inch of him screaming against it, but he had to know - his body seemed to fight against him, as if it didn't belong to him, and it was a slow progress.

   He really wished he would listen to his instincts.

   Blood stained the floor, streaked the walls, dark red, and the black of rot eating away at the overturned furniture, scattered as if a storm had blown through, but his eyes were fixed on the twisted caricature of a human body coiled immobile against the opposite wall - his heart twisted painfully and a sob clawed at his throat, leaving him completely mystified. He wanted to look away, wanted to leave - it was a woman's corpse, and she might have been lovely once, pale skin now darkened with rapid decay, a face mutilated beyond recognition - but his knees felt like they would give way any second. Had he known her? Memories pressed against his mind - but were they memories? Were they his? A sepia-toned silent film flashing in his mind's eye; a smile, a promise,  _a name_. "Cassanra." His own voice was foreign to his ears, raw and strange, like it wasn't his own, but the name was familiar enough, a name he had spoken many times before. " _Cassanra._ " He probably shouldn't, but he crawled towards her, sliding through the pooled blood to reach her bloated body, gathering her to him, holding her tight. Her skin was cold, frozen to the touch - she must have been dead for a long while, and his sight blurred with tears at the thought. 

   It came back to him in pieces. 

   The Defected in the village. The single-minded terror thrumming through him,  _Cassanra and the children._ Darkness. Rot. Corruption. 

   He had watched as the people he had known fall to the fiends.

   How long ago had that been?

   Time trickles past as sand through his fingers before he even thinks about releasing the corpse, fingers stiff as if he were dying himself. He needed to find survivors. He needed to make sure the village and the other villagers were alright. All he wanted to do was lay down and wait for death to claim him, but there was a driving force that nudged him to his feet. He would come back and bury her, bury  _them -_ his wife and children.  _His children._ He felt even weaker as the memory returned to him and he hated himself that they hadn't been at the forefront of his mind. 

   Saraia, barely seven years old, and Atticus -  _Atticus._ Newborn and helpless.

    _Why had he even left them?_

   He started at a desperate pounding at the door. 

   "Lord Luminary!"

   He stared long and hard at the brass hinges, the doorknob. The title had triggered a niggling little memory but he hadn't placed it yet - he knew this voice as well, gruff and deep - though he had never heard it in this light, as loud as a roar to his ringing ears and tinged with panic. A reply was on the tip of his tongue. 

_'You of all people don't have to call me that, Tybus.' He had scowled once, scrawling his looping signature across the bottom of the page of a report, and was responded with a snort. 'I'd rather have you treat me the same as you always have.' He looked up but he didn't have to, to see Tybus's eye-roll, the amusement pulling at the wrinkles carved deep into the olive green of his tough, weathered skin, the dirty white of his bushy eyebrows. 'Yes, I'm sure that will look wonderful.' Tybus replied dryly. 'A wizened old troll like me dragging you back to work by the tips of those pointy little ears of yours and calling you-'_

   "Tristiran!"

   That drew a more immediate, instinctive response - he jolted as if he had touched electricity. His name.  _His name._ That was his name. Was it? _Wasn't it?_ It had to be. It niggled, writhed, begging for his attention. He parted his lips, but his throat had closed up and he couldn't speak.  _'I'm here.'_ He wanted to say, but it felt as if he had used up his voice weeping Cassanra's name, grieving in despair and uncertainty. He only managed a raspy sound -  _Tybus_ \- and the last thing he saw was the door flying open as if someone had used brute force to ram the lock open, a flash of green - his knees gave and there was nothing.

* * *

   He woke with a start, though at first he didn't realize why. The room swam into focus above him and he blinked into the half-darkness. Shadows flickered on the ceiling and he turned his head to watch the candle splutter in the stillness. A damp cloth slid off his forehead and he wiped the back of his hand over the chilled skin of his face, too long fingers exploring the unfamiliar contours of his face. Everything was hazy, like seeing through a fog - limbs heavy like moving through water. Everything  _hurt_. He hadn't even noticed he had been injured, and his head throbbed as he tried to recall what had happened before he had woken up in a pool of blood and - 

   His breath caught as Cassanra's face came back to mind, heaved on a grief that fit strangely in his chest - tight and constricting but wildly unfocused - just like his puzzle piece memories, a handful that made up a frame but not the picture. There were things he wasn't remembering, he was sure of it, the names of places and people and things that happened - he just wished he knew what they were. 

   He only realized that he was woken by the sound of raised voices just beyond the bedroom door, arguing, when the lowered tones rose again - and he realized they were arguing about  _him;_  he could hear his name being spoken. Tristiran rubbed his face with the heels of his hands and swung his legs out of the bed, knowing that he wouldn't get any rest with the noise, his bare feet muffled against the fur carpet as he padded over to the door. "You're going to pace a valley into my floor, just sit down and _wait._ " He recognized the gruff baritone - one of the speakers was Tybus. 

   "Yldros's _balls_ , healer, do _not_  make me curse you just so I can get to that door."

   Tybus made a disgruntled sound and Tristiran could easily imagine the look on his face, though he wasn't sure if the healer sounded indignant at the curse or the threat. The other voice was less familiar through the inches of wood but it tugged at his memory to hear it.

   "Not while I'm still caring for the Lord Luminary you won't."

   "...Do not think for a second I won't resort to hauling you out of the way myself."

   "Your majesty,  _please-_ "

   "I'm not king _yet_ you under-grown troll-"

   "-I would have you know I'm at a perfectly reasonable height for a troll-"

   "- _Tybus_ -" _  
_

   "-and that the Lord Luminary has been through  _enough_ for now and you need to let him  _rest-_ "

   "-he is my  _brother_ , I have a right to see that he is unharmed-"

   "-because he will still  _be here_ in the morning and better prepared to have you _fuss_ all over him like a eostroc brooding mother-"

   "-I do not  _fuss-_ "

   Tristiran pushed the door open gently, and still it creaked on its hinges loud enough for the squabbling to cease. "The Lord Luminary isn't going to get any sleep with you two going at each other like an old married couple." He groused, and was surprised to find he wasn't really all that annoyed. Tybus's grumbling told him he was the only one. "Are you sure you two don't have anything to tell me?" A weak attempt at teasing, halfhearted at best.

   His visitor was on him immediately, all dark hair and pale limbs, crushing him in a hug that made all his aching bones protest but was over before he could voice his discomfort, hands holding him by the shoulders at arms-length, long fingers digging hard into his skin. " _Tir_." The voice was low, urgent - a familiar tenor tone now that it wasn't muffled through the door. The face, even more so, long hair pulled away from his face in queue away from his face, with strands escaping in a haphazard fashion as if blown loose by strong winds. Tristiran had been worried that he wouldn't remember whoever this was but the memories came in a stuttered trickle. Fighting, side by side. Flashes of purple-black magic. A crown. "I tried to come as soon as I heard, nearly killed two ealost getting here too, but you know how those noblemen are." He made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat. " _You can't, your highness, it's too dangerous your highness._ " Tristiran stifled a surprised laugh at the mocking, high-pitched tone, because he knew it would only encourage him, and because his head was spinning with information, questions on the tip of his tongue which felt slow and stupid. "Honestly, it sometimes feels like they don't realize I also helped you take down a  _god_ -"

   "Cyal, please." Tristiran couldn't help the fondness in his voice, instinctive as his words, even though he felt too exhausted for the banter. "They have a right to be the way they are. They would run about as helpless as headless chickens without someone to lead them, and _you_ are-"

   " _You_ could." Cyaldir cut in, and the words faltered in Tristiran's throat. This was an old argument, he could taste it on his tongue, bitter and awful. It was the source of many disagreements between them. There was the acute weight of disapproval in his chest but it could also have been the ache of the bruises blossoming on his rib cage. "You have a right just as much as I do."

   "We've spoken about this." And if he sounded faded and tired to his own ears before, it was even more so now - an unreadable expression, perhaps disappointment, flashed across Cyaldir's face. He's not quite sure how he knew what to say, just as he doesn't understand how he knew the things he did when he first awoke, but it feels as if the words have been said so many times it's just an old record on repeat. "No one wants a bastard elf on the throne-"

   "You are as much a royal as I am and only _half_ an elf-"

   "-and I have done nothing to be even remotely deserving-"

   "-you saved us, you're a  _hero_ -"

   " _If I may._ " And the brothers guiltily cut themselves off; Tristiran had almost forgotten about Tybus, who was patting Cyaldir's arm irritably. "Your majesty has already seen with his own eyes that the Lord Luminary is alive and well, but he has lost a lot of blood and I did not slave away the entire night saving his life so that he could pass out from fatigue as soon as he regained consciousness." 

   Cyaldir's eyes narrowed. "You told me he was never in any danger."

   Tybus was unfazed. "Mythburgh was overrun by the Defected, your majesty -  _everyone_ was in danger."

   "Cyal, I'm alright." Tristiran tried for a smile; it was crooked and forced, but then the memory of the village came back to the forefront of his mind and it was suddenly impossible to keep the smile on his face. The overpowering stench of death and rot. Blood splattered ground and roaring monsters. His  _family-_ his vision tunneled and he swayed, turning his head away from both brother and healer, pressing a hand to his mouth to hide the twist of his lips and trying to stop the trembling. "...I'm alright." His voice had dropped below a faint whisper and he was fooling no one. When he turned back Cyaldir had gone ashen, looking ill, as if he was only just realizing. His eyes flitted to Tybus, who pressed his lips together in a thin line over the incisors and the pair of fangs of his lower jaw that protruded past his upper lip, expression guarded and tight.

   "Saraia and Atticus..." It wasn't phrased as a question, but the horrified realization stated in the vain hope that the answer was anything but that which he already knew he was going to hear. 

   Tristiran couldn't bear to watch his brother's face as he silently shook his head, to watch that flimsy desire for assurance crumble.

   "I shouldn't have left." He croaked, passing his hand over his face. "I should have stayed and protected them."

   "You couldn't have known." Cyaldir grabbed his wrist, pulling his hand away, his voice equally hoarse, shaken. "You cannot blame yourself. Not for _this_. The Defected-"

   "I left Cassanra on her own." Tristiran blinked, and he realized he couldn't stop shaking. "I let her-"

   " _Tristiran._ " Cyaldir barked and Tristiran jerked, ashamed - it made him feel strange to hear his name.

   His name - it didn't quite _feel_ like it. There was something wrong. He felt oddly displaced, his emotions skewed, his mind all over the place. There was a lump in his throat he couldn't quite swallow and it was hard to  _breathe_. There was something wrong with him. Something wrong with  _everything._ He couldn't tell which one was more prevalent. 

   "This wasn't your fault." Cyaldir pressed urgently, unaware of Tristiran's other thoughts. "You can't keep thinking everything that goes wrong is your problem to deal with alone-" Tristiran shook his head, stopping him from saying any more. 

   "Don't." He rasped, and pulled away from his brother, but stumbling on weak legs and Cyaldir caught him in time. "I will not - I _cannot_ \- not now."

   "Tir," Cyaldir sounded pained, but he fell quiet, instead helping his brother over to a seat while Tybus came over to take his pulse. 

   "You can't stay here." He spoke again after a while, several minutes into the silent that had reigned over them while the troll examined Tristiran for a fever and then left to warm them dinner after being certain there was no lingering illness. Tristiran made no sign he had heard, nor any inclination to answer, staring listlessly at his hands, folded on top of the table. "Tir, you can't stay in Mythburgh." Tristiran shook his head, as if to protest, but Cyaldir pressed on, his voice taking on the edge Tristiran had only heard used against stubborn nobles; the voice he had once teased Cyaldir as his 'king voice.' He was mildly stunned to have it turned on him in this situation. "No, you will  _not_ argue with me on this." He slid into the seat across his brother, and Tristiran resisted the strange urge to snap back at him. "The defenses have been corrupted. _No one_ is going to be staying here. Not if I have anything to say about it. I will take everyone back to the capital with me if I must, but there is no saving this place. I _know you_. You're going to try to stay, try to protect this village regardless. You're going to tell me that it is because Mythburgh is your  _home_. Because Ywesis only knows, you are nothing if not self-sacrificing. And Cassanra-" Cyaldir inhaled sharply as what little color his brother had gained in his brief rest seemed to drain from his face at her name, but he pushed past his hesitation. "Call me cruel if you must but we both know Cassanra would not want you to do that." Tristiran faltered, because Cyaldir had taken the words he would have used right out of his mouth. "Mythburgh was home to a lot of other people as well, but it is  _too dangerous._ You know the corruption leaves nothing unscathed and I will not lose my only brother to this Yldros cursed blight." 

   "Half-brother." Tristiran protested weakly, but Cyaldir had more or less already won, and he knew it. 

   "I already sent word to our friends." The prince continued, and Tristiran made an indignant noise at the admission. "Do not look at me as if I've committed a heinous crime. If anything, you would get off lightly for not having sent word for the better half of the past year. I hadn't stayed for their responses, but I doubt they are not already riding to Lacheles as we speak. Tir," he paused and Tristiran looked up from studying his fingers, at the dried blood he imagined he could still see there. 

   Cyaldir took a breath, gentling his tone, grasping his forearm. "You are not alone." He reminded him, and Tristiran felt as if the words should bring him a sense of comfort, that there should have been a memory tying those words to some meaning that would settle the turmoil of his soul.

   And yet there was nothing but a hollowness that left him grasping for balance.

   He couldn't feel more alone.

* * *

   Tristiran couldn't help the vague feeling he didn't particularly enjoy travelling to Lacheles, capital or no. The mountain shadowed the better part of the city, even from what he had seen from afar, and corruption and shadow had painted it varying shades of rotten black and brown puce. The rivers that snaked through the surrounding land glittered gray in the pale sunlight, cloudy with pollution. It did not appear an exceptionally cheerful place to be. He didn't understand how Cyaldir could bear to return to it, even to claim a throne that was rightfully his.

   Who would ever want to take on the responsibility of a plagued and cursed land?

   His brother was a much better man than he was.

   The gravel-packed road slithered up to the towering ebony ixeyr walls and Tristiran felt as if they would swallow him whole. Instead, he fixed his eyes beyond the glittering gates that seemed to be made of solid darkness, on the ramrod straightness of Cyaldir's spine some ten paces ahead of him, and pressed ahead. Behind him, caravans filled with the Mythburgh refugees clattered quietly after them through the city gates. 

   Judging eyes and sneering whispers; the vague memories he had of the capital seemed to be nothing but unpleasant. 

   He had only been here once - Cyaldir's official coronation as the unchallenged heir, the declaration that had allowed him to return to Mythburgh unmolested all those years ago. If his brother hadn't done so, he was sure to have been hunted down by both those who wished to make him into something he wasn't and by those who wished to see him _gone,_ dragged into the politics he had explicitly stated that he never wanted anything to do with. 

   In his opinion it had been one too many times.

   The city was hushed even as their steeds screeched quietly and pawed their way over the cobblestone path. Ealost were a fascination to him - strong and swift, antlers curving back towards the riders, the four legs of a horse and the top half of something humanoid; tamed and muted. In the wild they were fierce warriors, he remembered, yet someone, somehow, had begun to tame them to get from one point to another faster than their legs could carry them. It was a strange thing, to ride an ealost; to expect to have a companion to talk to and finding that they could not respond.

   And then the Hall of Time loomed before them, imposing and carved into the face of the black mountain - a castle as impressive as it was foreboding: the cold chill of a tomb and not the inviting warmth of a home. The guilt settled tight and heavy in his breastbone for the years he forced Cyaldir to mature too quickly, too soon, to take on the responsibilities he might not have had to for several years more. Cyaldir gestured for him to pull his ealost up to his side, while the caravans were directed further in. 

   He had barely so much as swung himself over the back of the creature, barely righted his center of gravity from two days' worth of somewhat pressed riding to get back to the capital before the corruption had taken what few survivors they had left, when someone came barreling into his side, arms thrown around his neck, a muffled, if somewhat exaggerated, sound of relief swallowed up into his travelling cloak. Small, slight - female. As when he had seen Cyaldir, the memories came in jealously guarded pinches - the flash of blades, a grin as wickedly sharp, movements executed as fluidly as a dance. Her tyrian purple hair was coiled into the capital's latest trend and she was draped in fashionable silks of subdued red and pale blues - amber eyes that flashed with concern sharped with a focused ire. Muscles that had tensed up at being attacked loosened as Tristiran realized he wasn't actually being  _attacked._

   "Why is it," Khalliphae hissed, yanking herself away as he raised his hands to pat her back, slapping a hand against his chest; he winced audibly as she unknowingly struck the bruising on his sternum. "That _every_ time I hear about you, every time I hear _from_ you, your life has to be in danger?" 

   "I'm sorry." He tried, as sincerely as possible, but his voice was raw and weak and the irritation in her features didn't fade away. "I was... caught up."

   "Give the man a break, Kal, he nearly died." Cyaldir handed over the reigns to a waiting stable-hand, and loosed his hair from its' windswept queue, running his fingers through tangled strands as if to make himself appear a measure more presentable. 

   "He's exaggerating." Tristiran amended hurriedly as Khalliphae narrowed her eyes in alarm, lips pursed.

   "Well, I wouldn't be surprised if he wasn't." She crossed her arms. "Your lack of self-preservation was endearing in the past, Tristiran Averyx, but you're not that young anymore, you realize?" Her gaze flickered past him as if she was just realizing Tristiran and Cyaldir had rode up alone, and her arms unclenched, expression becoming cloudy with concern. "...it's just the two of you?" 

   Tristiran dropped his gaze, staring hard at a point beyond her shoulder and trying to swallow past the lump that had formed in his throat. It had been a long two days, but he could still feel the way the bark of the shovel had dug into his fists, splinters biting into the callouses on the pads of his fingers. There hadn't been enough time for headstones, for ceremony, just three graves dug by his own hands; three too many. Tybus had stayed with him but Tristiran had not allowed the troll to help - it had been something he had to do on his own. His head throbbed in protest.

   " _Kal._ " Cyaldir warned, and Tristiran could feel the weight of his eyes but didn't turn. 

   Instead he tried for a weak smile. "...Just the two of us." From the grief reflected in her eyes, it didn't convince her, and she reached out for him. He allowed her to pull him down, tucking his face into the crook of her neck, arms tight around him. He tried to convince himself that the scent of cinnamon and rustwood stung his eyes, made it hard to breathe; her hands stroked his back to calm the silent trembling as he fisted handfuls of the decorative scarf she had wound around her shoulders and allowed himself the brief moment of grief he had not indulged in since Mythburgh. 

   Khalliphae hadn't complained, had only murmured words of comfort into his ear as she had drawn him away from the courtyard, away from prying eyes, and into the cool shade of the Hall - hadn't asked him anything, for which he was grateful, and he hadn't even been aware of it when she set him down in the seat of Cyaldir's private room. He didn't ask how she knew where it was, after all it had always been her job to know things others didn't. A fire was already alight in the grate, and he hadn't noticed how cold he had been. 

   "Zeph sent word yesterday." Khalliphae spoke over her shoulder; Cyaldir closed the door behind them. "He said he'd join us as soon as his patient was stable but..." The prince shook his head. 

   "That could take days." He muttered. "And Hari?"

   "None of this is necessary." Tristiran spoke quietly, weariness making him sound a little more irritated than he actually was. He unclasped his travelling cloak and let it fall from his shoulders, pooling around his waist. He pressed the chill of his palms against his eyes, burning from the heat of tears, his sigh a heavy weight that tumbled from his lips. 

   " _Of course it is_." Both Cyaldir and Khalliphae snapped at him at the same time, causing him to jump, hands dropping from his face in surprise. He didn't miss the look that passed between the two of them - a brief, embarrassed glance that lasted half of a heartbeat before they deliberately looked away from each other.

   "Get it through your thick head that you're _important_ to us." Khalliphae had crossed her arms again, but there was a look on uncertainty that was out of place, a hunch in her usually sloping shoulders. "If anything happened to you..." 

   A sharp, phantom pain prickled the base of his throat and he rubbed at the area absentmindedly, but his exasperation warred with the need to comfort her. She was his  _friend_ , and he was being a little too prickly for no good reason - he sighed and reached for her hand, patting it gently. Some of the tension seemed to melt from her at the physical touch, a little quirk of hers that suddenly came to mind, another tiny puzzle piece that slotted into place in his memory. "I'm sorry." He was apologizing a lot lately. He felt like he had been apologizing his entire life. "I merely... I'm just a little tired." The words tripped and tumbled off his tongue and his throat tightened as he became aware of the fact that he was putting too much focus in the way he phrased words - it didn't come to him naturally as it had when he had known how to respond to Cyaldir's attempts to draw him into the politics of the country.

   "Typical." Cyaldir rolled his eyes. "Always understating things. You spent the last two days riding without rest, you're _exhausted_."

   "Pot and kettle, brother." Tristiran grumbled, letting go of Khalliphae's hand to try to smooth out the pain that shifted to a point between his eyes. "I'm not the one who traveled to Mythburg and back in the span of a single week. Tybus hadn't spoken in jest, you _have_ become fussy." He would have to see the troll first chance he had and make sure his friend wasn't mistreated by the close-minded humans of the capital, as non-humans were wont to be treated in Lacheles.

   An indignant response must have been on the tip of Cyaldir's tongue but they were saved by the sharp rapping on the doors to the chamber.

   "Your highness," an unimpressive -  _unimpressed_  - voice called from the other side, flat as a board. "The Lord Aphion has requested for the re-convention of the Council upon your return. They are awaiting your presence in the council hall, my liege." 

   Cyaldir's expression grew stormy. "Of course he would." He muttered darkly. "Kal-"

   "Already on top of it." She agreed, lips curling into a coy smirk. "Well. On top of anyone you require me to be on, your highness."

   Tristiran didn't have to look to see the way the flush took root in his brother's cheeks, the way the words fled him, and coughed into his fist to hide a faint smile. 

   "And you." Cyaldir was quick to turn his attention to him, to escape the mortification of embarrassment. " _Rest_." He was using the king voice again, but Tristiran merely flapped a weak hand at him this time.

   "Go." The elf insisted. "Do your duties." 

   Khalliphae slipped her hand into the arm Cyaldir offered her and, with a stern look at Tristiran to rest that was on par with his brother's, allowed him to sweep her away. 

   The silence he was left with was suffocating, allowed a morbid grief to caress his thoughts. 

   Tristiran spent the first few minutes listening to the crackle of the fire before rising in search for the water basin. The chambers were spacious, arched high above his head in a way that made him dizzy to look up, sparsely decorated for the room of the heir, with only two seats over a soft rug by the fireplace and several full bookshelves behind a sturdy desk near the window - but no basin. He hesitated before the doors that obvious led to his brother's inner apartments but decided that Cyaldir wouldn't have minded. They had shared spaces much smaller than these on their travels years ago, after all. 

   There was a mirror propped behind the basin and ceramic jug of warm water, on a stand across the foot of the bed, alongside a simple wide-bristled brush and several lengths of leather hair-ties - the bedroom had as meager furniture as the waiting room, but he could see that Cyaldir had kept it that way on purpose. Every inch was in order, spotless, militaristic in a way that brought him a form of comfort to know that his brother hadn't changed, though the mirror was a rare object of luxury he hadn't expected to see. The frame was delicately carved ixeyr, snarling creatures and beautiful faces - he squinted at the glitter that caught his gaze and noticed their eyes were set with tiny, cloudy oborh gems; a clever little thing. He would've studied it more if his own reflection hadn't demanded his attention. 

   The person in the mirror was a stranger to him, and he had to reach up to touch his face in order to make sure his eyes weren't playing tricks on him.

   Pale blonde hair - long enough to tangle spectacularly from the wind and rain - framed discolored blue gray eyes set against skin so ashen it was almost bloodless, high cheekbones like his brother's, colorless lips dry and chapped from the chill, ears with the trademark narrow tips that slanted back against the side of his head like arrowheads. He was glad he left his cloak in the other room, or else even that faded color would have made him appear sickly. He looked a little gaunt, fatigue in the downturn of his mouth - he understood why Cyaldir and Khalliphae had looked at him like they were fearful of him suddenly toppling over at the gentlest breeze. He thumbed the sharp angle of his jaw - no stubble, despite an entire week without taking a blade to his face. Nothing about it seemed like himself. Was this what despair could do to a person? He could hardly remember the person he had been before. 

   He filled the bowl and proceeded to wash away his exhaustion, scrubbing the travel's worth of sleeplessness and grief away, and attempting to tame the wild snarl of his hair with the brush. The ties were too small for him to sweep it up into a queue like Cyaldir did, and instead settled with wrapping one around where his hair reached his shoulder, leaving the rest in a loose tail away from his face, along his back. 

   The mild heat of the water had returned some color to his face and he didn't look as if he would drop dead in an instant - he was more presentable than he had been a few moments before.

   He returned to the main chambers and saw that someone had brought the meager belongings he had brought with him from his ealost. He hadn't even realized he had forgotten them when Khalliphae had all but dragged him inside. He had promised the two he would rest, but there was an agitation that made his nerves itch for movement and a calling singing in his blood and before he could comprehend it he was quietly closing the door behind him, making sure the hallway was empty, before setting a cautious pace up the hall.

   The Hall was quieter than he remembered it being.

   For Cyaldir's coronation, the servants had bustled about with flowers and decorations and it had been loud and joyful and rambunctious - now it was as cold and hushed as a tomb. He had not been here when they had arranged the funeral of the former king, his father, King Uhthys, mostly because he had not known their relationship at the time, but he imagined it would have felt exactly like this; somber and soundless as if the entire city was waiting with bated breath what would happen next. 

   It had felt like a hundred years ago.

   He shouldn't have forgone a cloak.

   Tristiran didn't know where he was going, until the chill of the wind sifting through his bound hair recalled his attention.

   The inner courtyard was open to the elements, and he could see the gray sky through the skeletal transparent oborh dome overhead - it must have been beautiful once, he could see the hint of what had been flowering plants, now strangled by withering weeds and dying grasses. The stone path that wound into the gardens were covered with dry moss, and yet there was a sad charm to it. His eyes naturally focused on the lone figure tending the dying flora and felt as if he were out of place among the greys and browns and blacks of everything around him - silver blonde curls and stubble trimmed neatly on his chin and stainless white robes despite being in the dirt. He felt as if he had been compelled to be here and he stepped into the courtyard, underneath the pale light through the dome, feeling strangely drawn to him, perplexed by the tranquility that had smothered all his worries the moment the man turned to him and smiled. 

   "I was not sure you would arrive safely." The man greeted him and that pierced through the fog of contentment that had settled around the frazzled edges of his thoughts.

   "...what?" He replied, intelligently.

   The man's lips quirked, but his expression warred between amusement and concern. "I see your memories are still wandering the Evanesce. Do not let them stray for long, or they might never be willing to return." He reached for Tristiran and placed a hand on his head - Tristiran immediately felt like a child again, faced with something he didn't - _couldn't_ \-  understand. "I cannot linger long outside it either. Remember why you are here. Your friends await, but the fracture among the worlds will not. Even now the fissures are splintering still and Yldros draws strength from the pandemonium of the corrupted. You cannot remain, or Chaos will swallow you whole."

   He had heard this somewhere before - wanted to ask but he felt as if he had to remain quiet. The words were insistent in his consciousness, coiled like chains, heavy and binding.

   "Your companions are scattered among the precipice of treachery. Your wit remains with the prince of many wings. Your loyalty prevails in the duchess of many faces. Your tenacity endures in the halfblood of many scars," the man continued, laying the other hand on Tristiran's shoulder. "And you, transient outlander, courageous champion. My Luminary of many lives. You came to me with the request to set things right and I have not turned you away. Before it is too late-" 

   "My Lord?"

   Whatever spell he had fallen under snapped as a foreign voice called to him and suddenly Tristiran was alone, blinking slowly as he became aware that someone was standing in the cover of the hallway, watching him quizzically. "My Lord, is everything alright?" He recognized the dark shade of the livery lined with silver, the colors of the royal family - a servant or a knight of some sort.

   "I..." He quickly glanced back, but the other man was no longer there, and there was almost no evidence that there had ever been anyone else, but he could hear the voice as clearly as if they had not been interrupted, and at his feet - 

    _Before it is too late, save them._

   Tristiran swallowed thickly, eyes fixed on the patch of fresh grass nestled among the dead weeds, a single white blossom with dew on its silky petals, right where the man had been standing. Even if he had forgotten all else, he hadn't forgotten this. The _Blessing of Ywesis_ \- the symbol of the god that had called him to unite the empire against chaos, once upon a time.

   "No." He said quietly, mostly to himself. "Everything is not alright."


End file.
